Love and Other Drugs
by Anexie
Summary: Watson stops denying how much he needs his detective, and Holmes fondly endeavours to aid him in the process. Love is a science, and like any enthusiastic researcher, Holmes desires to explore and test the boundaries of this newly available circumstance - Watson be willing.
1. Chapter 1

I had taken a few days holiday by the south coast of England with the acquaintance of the lovely Miss Morstan. It had been her birthday a week previously, and this was my gift to her. She seemed to have enjoyed herself greatly and I was pleased to know so, yet felt somehow that I could not emulate her happiness.

I arrived back at 221B late in the morning, around the lunch hour, when Baker Street was at one of its busiest times in the day and the road was filled with carriages and hansoms of business and personal use alike. When I entered the lodgings I was in a mild fluster for the wheel of a reckless driver had clipped my ankle and consequently set off the reoccurring pain in my leg. Evidently, Holmes noticed this before I had ever entered our lodgings – I opened the door to reveal him sat in his chair with an unfolded paper in front of his eyes, which he did not look away from as he asked, 'Watson, where is your cane?'

'It is in my bedroom. It's no matter; if I take a seat I will no longer have need for it,' said I, removing and hanging up my coat and hat as I spoke, then moving towards my armchair. 'How have you kept, Holmes?'

He ignored my question and instead, after focussing on me with sharp eyes for a moment, declared, 'I hope Miss Morstan feels more content than yourself at the extravagant coastal escape you have taken with her.'

'Holmes! How could you possibly know I was with Mary?'

'Simple. You smell strongly of her cologne, and your right shoulder has a number of blonde hairs upon it. She has leant her head upon you as you sat by her side - in a hansom, for you have splashes dotting the the left sleeve of your coat.'

He paused, apparently savouring my expression which must have just then reflected my emotions clearly – exasperated and impressed both at once.

He continued. 'Additionally, you have sand more heavily imprinted into the sole of one of your boots than the other, suggesting you have walked in one direction along a coastline for some time. Your boots have been recently polished-' He cast a look downwards. '-this morning, but clumsily and without care, showing the polish has been performed by someone of little experience in doing so, or someone employed to give the favour for no cost such as at an expensive hotel, where the service is complimentary but expectedly of low standard. This deduction of your presence in such a hotel is confirmed by the duck feather in your hair behind your ear, owing to the fact that you slept restlessly in your time there and aggravated the luxury pillow which was stuffed with such feathers.'

I reached to my ear and caught hold of a minuscule feather. I twirled it in my fingers, and Holmes watched its movements like a cat would.

'Tea?' I asked, attempting to divert his attentions as I climbed heavily to my feet. I ignored the pain in my leg as much as I ignored his completely correct deductions, hoping that the matter of my recent absence would be left to rest.

'Thank you, Watson.'

As I made tea, I noticed what it was about Holmes that had subtly unsettled me since my arrival. Mr Sherlock Holmes was prone to unconventional behaviour whilst under the influence of under- or over-stimulation to his brilliant mind, but even acting under these extremities, I had never once seen his hair anything but tidy and shining with pomade, nor his jaw unshaven. He displayed both a mess of hair and a greying jawline, and the instinctive conclusion of my own was that something must be terribly wrong. Perhaps he was ill.

'Holmes, are you feeling alright?' I spoke tentatively.

There was a few seconds pause – probably his surprise kept him from answering directly as I very rarely ventured into personal matters with him. 'Quite alright, Watson- although I could ask the same of you. One of your cuffs is undone, your collar is askew and the darkness beneath your eyes indicates great tiredness. You've looked certifiably dishevelled ever since you arrived.'

I continued to pour the tea as he spoke and handed him his before I fastened both cuff and collar more correctly, and sat down to my own drink. 'I assure you Holmes, I am fine.'

He made a 'hmm' noise as he took a sip. The sleeves to his dressing gown shifted as he brought the cup to his lips, and the movement caught my eye. I looked casually to the pale skin of his forearms, and saw a glimpse of faint pinpricks and recent bruising. His face was impassive, and a stranger might have taken his mood to be a serious and withdrawn affair; but his eyes were bright and merry. To my experienced eye, he looked content, which was usually only an emotion drawn to him upon hearing the pleasant harmony of a well-tuned violin, or when under the influence of the dastardly drug he insisted on administering into himself. A quick glance to the mantelpiece confirmed my suspicions. Holmes saw my eyes move.

'These past few days of your absence have brought me tedium and monotony. I have scoured the papers, but-'

'-but you found nothing of interest, and had no visiting clients, so you took it upon yourself to poison your body instead?' I snapped. My temper, which had been unusually agitative since I woke that morning, had risen significantly at this display. 'Whatever next! Will I discover a stray opium pipe on the dining table?'

Abandoning my tea for something stronger, I rose and walked to the sideboard to lean heavily on it and pour myself a whisky from the decanter which rested there. I stood for a few minutes with the wish to calm myself and after draining the glass, I turned back around. Holmes was regarding me levelly.

'Pray tell what has happened whilst you have had Miss Morstan in your company which has made you so distressed,' said he in that smooth and slow tone usually reserved for panicked clients.

'Nothing,' I replied a little brashly, so I followed with, 'Mary is not the cause of my distress. The fair lady has remained, as always, kind, pleasant and endearingly loyal to me.'

'Miss Morstan is an amicable woman, and well-suited to you.'

'Yes. That is entirely true. I only wish I did not feel so much as if it were my _duty_ to accompany her.' I suddenly wished for another whisky, but abstained both from the drink and Holmes' gaze as I tried to settle my temper.

'What do you mean, my dear friend?'

'Oh! Oh! Is this one case that the infamous Mr Sherlock Holmes cannot discover a conclusion to?' I exclaimed haughtily, and immediately regretted my tone. But I could not retract it now, and his eyes narrowed in irritation. He placed his cup onto the table at the side of him, and stood to his feet. He slid his hands into his dressing gown pockets in a relaxed fashion, but his expression was a dark one. I knew I had offended him, and quickly sought to remedy the situation.

'What I mean is- Holmes, she's not _you_.'

Instantly, Holmes' manner softened. 'Ah,' said he, seemingly and quite unusually unknowing of what to say. I wondered if he'd interpreted the correct meaning of my words- although I was probably insulting his brilliant intelligence to doubt that he had. I had been intending for some time to convey the exact nature of my thoughts and feelings towards him, but had never found myself in the correct situation to do so. Or so I told myself; in truth, I was far too nervous of his reaction to ever try to approach the subject.

And his real reaction was one I had not even contemplated. Striding towards me, he took my arm and led me towards the sofa used by clients. He sat at one end, and implored me to join him. I did not look him in the eye as I perched on the other end, wary of what his intentions were. However Sherlock Holmes is a good man and a loyal friend, and I should have known not to fear him.

'Watson,' he said softly, inclining his head to suggest I sit closer. Despite myself, I moved to sit next to him and felt a tentative arm settle across my shoulders. 'Relax,' his low voice murmured in my ear.

We stayed like that for a few moments, and the comforting weight of his arm helped to soothe my frazzled nerves until I breathed more normally and slumped further against his side, tired from the emotional stress. I could feel his heart beating from where my head rested on his chest.

'Holmes?'

When no comment or reply came to my ears I glanced upwards at my companion. He was staring resolutely ahead, chin held high and that sharp nose as proud as always. From this angle I could see how the short bristles along his jaw also ducked down onto his neck, which constricted slightly as he swallowed. A scent which I had rarely been close enough to smell teased at my senses. I must admit that my friend had never before that moment seemed so appealing to me, and I had to fight back the urge to embrace him warmly.

'Although Mary is a beautiful and desirable woman in many aspects,' I began, faltering a little. 'I don't know if I could ever think of her as I do you, my dear Holmes, even though I have been strongly endeavouring to do so these past few months.'

'Watson,' replied he in that deep, clear voice of his. 'Pray never endeavour to do so again.'

'Whatever do you mean?'

He sighed. 'I would... _appreciate_ your outward emotion henceforth, so that I could reciprocate you freely without fear of causing unintended aggravation due to a certain lack of propriety.'

'Beg pardon?'

'I have been aware of your interest in me for a long while now. I did not mention it, however, as I was unsure that it would have negative consequences.'

I was silent for a few seconds as this new information took root in my mind. Of course I should have known that it was impossible to keep a secret from the finest detective the country had ever produced. Even if he did seem to understand very little about romance and love.

'You assume I know nothing of romantic affairs. I assure you that I do – it is a science which can be observed and understood. And when I see you, my good fellow, my pulse quickens, my temperature increases; I derive some certain _pleasure_ from just attaining your company – and in your absence I long for your return. Even you - someone of significantly lower intelligence than myself – could deduce a conclusion to these responses of mine.'

I sat upright in shock. 'Holmes!' I ejaculated, staring into his enigmatic face with the give-away twinkling eyes.

'Indeed,' was the smug reply, before my companion leaned towards me with open arms and I found myself enveloped in a tight embrace. I returned the favour joyfully. He seemed a little wooden and awkward – but I reminded myself of just how few similar situations my friend had experienced in his lifetime and how little experience he must have. So nevertheless I clutched him with all the weary strength I still retained from such a fraught morning and felt finally content in the knowledge that this man, whom I had grown to care for more than anything in the world, returned my affections and would henceforth stand by my side with more conviction than ever previously.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Sherlock Holmes was a man of spontaneity and intrigue, so naturally when he announced that he was following a lead of a new case and would return when he had gained the information he sought, I did not question him but merely wished him luck on his search. However after three full days of his absence with no telegram to assure me, I began to have my doubts and worries. He was an extremely competent detective and very capable in his abilities of self-defence, yet his field was one of constant danger and crime and it was easy to be overcome by it.

Before departing from Baker Street he had mentioned something of 'Hugh Boone', whom I remembered to be the beggar-alias of Neville St. Clair. Mr St. Clair was the police-avoiding subject of one of Holmes' previous cases of which I have recorded, _The Man with the Twisted Lip_, and the search for him had first led my friend to an opium den in the East End of the city. Since Holmes had specifically mentioned Boone, I guessed his lead may have something to do with the man, and bravely I decided to pay a small visit to the drug den in hopes of finding where the great detective was. My desperation for news of his safety had grown too strong for me to ignore.

I set off from 221B early in the morning after a sleepless night in an empty bed, and was able to reach my destination within the hour (and assure the carriage wait for my return) due to giving the driver a healthy tip. The place was just as I remembered – the crooked steps leading deep into the depths of a harsh black mouth, the room stifling with darkness, sweat, and thick fug of the brown opium smoke. I breathed shallowly as to avoid it, but still felt the poison tickle at my throat. It was unbearably warm, so much that I was sweating – looking back, it had probably not been my greatest idea to adorn a winter's coat on my adventure that day, but in my haste to escape the idleness of Baker Street it had been the first garment I whipped from the coat-hooks.

Contorted bodies lay in twisted positions in the gloom, illuminated only by the little red circles as the opium burned in pipes, and the dusky fire of lit charcoal at the furthest end of the bunker. Towards this I drew, unconsciously seeking warmth in this cold place- so cold even though the month was June and the weather pleasantly mild.

Suddenly a hand drew at my elbow and a rasping voice in my ear endeavoured to persuade me of the pipe being held in front of my nose.

'I must decline,' said I, speaking quietly and attempting to not shudder at the acrid fumes. 'I am merely looking for a friend.'

I did not mention the name of whom I was seeking – Holmes would no doubt have taken some form of disguise and the information would be useless. This fact also did not much aid me in my search, I suddenly realised. To go calling his name aloud would only give away his disguise. There was nothing else for me to do but look around – no matter how much I detested the place.

I stepped quietly, unknowing of the inhabitants and their personal tolerances for noise and general disturbance, and their reactions if these limits were breached by some fumbling stranger such as me. I kept to the middle where the bodies were fewer, occasionally having to avoid the odd pair of sprawled legs. Glancing upon the desolate souls I was consumed with a terrible mixture of sympathy and repulsion at their waxen faces, pale eyes and low mutterings. Having governed for quite some time an utter abhorrence of the administration of the drug opium for recreation (and its subordinates, cocaine and morphine), I could not condone these creatures' addictions, but somehow a small part of my mind sought to commiserate with them and attempt to understand.

By this time I had reached the very far wall of the great underground hovel, where the fire spat and spluttered in a horribly sinister fashion. I tempted it not to set my fabrics alight and so did not venture close. Exhaling deeply, I resigned myself to the fact that upon seeing no such even small glimpse of Holmes, I had better confine myself to a different area of search, and with a clammy brow and a fluttering heart I set off back to the daylight. However I had scarcely put one foot forward when I felt a hand clutch the hem of my coat!

I jerked away in fright, but the grip did not lessen. I snatched my coat with both hands and tugged it from my captor's hold, drawing breath to curse as I did so.

'You fien-!' I started in a low growl, but was interrupted by a wonderfully familiar, if whispered, tone.

'It has not rained whatsoever in the past week, nor is it chilly; why do you wear such a heavy coat, my good Doctor?'

'Holmes?' I gasped in a hushed voice, looking wildly around me to catch the subject of the voice (it had not failed to occur to me that in my restlessness and sleep-deprivation, I may have imagined the self-righteous comment).

'Draw closer to the fire,' commanded the voice.

Following the order, I knew immediately I had not suffered some delusion. Lain on the floor, half in darkness with the fire only illuminating the slope of his forehead and the glint of one eye, here was Holmes! There was no mistaking the keen stare, the rigidity of his neck.

Remaining silent, I extended my hand blindly in his direction and felt pure relief when familiar long fingers grasped my own. He put more than half his weight on me as he rose to stand- he was weak. His leaning on me as I accompanied him to the exit only reinforced this small deduction of my own. He may have become ill, or intoxicated after so much exposure to these eventually lethal fumes... I had no idea for how long he had sat there, half alive in the gloom. Although originally consoled by his return to my presence, firstly panic and then anger took up residence in my troubled mind.

Once back to the ground level, I looked at him and saw that he had taken up no disguise whatsoever. He wore clothes familiar to him, but they were indeed ragged and dirtied. His hair was similarly wild, and he genuinely looked like he belonged from the depths I had just retrieved him. I naively did hope that it was just an act, and that my dear friend had not committed himself to that state willingly, or partaken of the drugs around him. His general distaste toward opium reassured me of this- but even the great Sherlock Holmes was human, and not immune to temptation. After all, he did by his own doing take cocaine and morphine recreationally – what would stop him from succumbing in a weak moment in a dingy drugs den?

We meandered slowly to the corner of the street and out of sight where I hoped he would, as the last time, shrug off his weakened act like an old jacket and resume as his old energetic self. When nothing of the sort occurred however, I frowned and placed my friend carefully to lean against a solid wall whilst I hailed my waiting carriage to return us to Baker Street. Once safely inside, Holmes broke his silence and spoke in a rasp to me – which I had previously believed to be an effort to disguise his voice, but was actually a worrying sign of his ill-health.

'Watson,' he coughed. 'Did you bring water?'

I frowned, apologised and said that I could only offer him my hip-flask which happened to be in my pocket, but as it contained only brandy, urged him not to drink much for fear of further damaging his state. As it were, he listened little to me and proceeded to consume what was left of half the flask, slowly so I would not notice until we had arrived back at our lodgings when it was passed back to me, empty. Although he did seem to have perked up a small amount by the alcohol, it was at times like this that I do wish Holmes was a man more inclined to take others' advice – especially from his Doctor. It would have saved him trouble more times than to count.

I accompanied him up the stairs and squeezed his hand in comfort as I opened the door to our home, yet he did not, as usual, return the gesture. I bade him sit in his armchair and, after drinking a large quantity of water and an astonishing number of cold sandwiches and crackers, Holmes' eyes regained some light and the ashen look to fade from his skin. I guessed he had not eaten for all the time he had been absent, which whilst not peculiar behaviour for him, was worrying enough for me. I collected his plates and took them back downstairs and when I returned, his eyes were closed and his head leaning against the back rest of his chair. I stood for some moments, watching concernedly.

'Watson, do remove your coat and hat and act as if you were going to stay a while.'

He obviously was not completely at ill-health. After removing said offensive items, I sat in my own chair and expelled some of the questions rising in my throat like bile. 'How long had you been in there?'

'For however long I had been away.'

'Since Wednesday, then?'

'It would seem so.'

'And you did not eat, or indeed move, in all that time?'

'It would appear so.'

'And,' I began tentatively, 'You did not partake of any drug whilst there?'

'No,' said he.

'But Holmes, your pupils are so small; your skin is clammy and white as linen; your-'

'No,' he repeated more loudly, raising his head to meet my evidence with a quiet glare. 'You know of my disapproval of opium.'

'I also know of your fondness for cocaine.'

His eyes flickered behind my head to the mantle-piece.

'I was _worried_, Holmes.'

His nostrils flared.

'I didn't know where the _Hell_ you were- or if you were even safe!'

He stood abruptly and stalked out of the room with hulked shoulders, staggering a little as he moved. Knowing better than to follow him, I sat silently fuming for a few moments, knowing that by my friend's mood I would be unable to question or aid him further that day. Eventually, I unballed my fists and opened up the paper from the day before, which I had scoured for news of the detective or his whereabouts, or hints alluding to such. It took a few minutes admittedly, but I realised that I was seeing the print but reading nothing and so threw down the paper in disgust.

It did not take a Doctor's knowledge to see that Holmes was still in too weak a state for even _him_ to seriously consider venturing outside so soon, so I decided to take a long walk in the knowledge that he had no doubt retired to bed and would not awaken until the next day. And so I walked: a roundabout trip of three miles, more or less, for which I was glad I had taken my cane. The bout of exercise, freedom and fresh air, after confining myself to Baker Street for the past few days in case Holmes should show his face, proved very beneficial to my mental and physical health and I returned back home in a much fresher spirit than I had left it. Having taken my stroll rather leisurely, I had been away nearly two hours; it was now evening and I hoped my flatmate would be in better mood. But considering Holmes' famous week-long stints of sulkish behaviour, I felt my hope was rather impractical.

After tea and a spot of something to eat, I settled down in my chair and sighed contentedly. Turning the events over in my mind as I'd walked had led me to arrive at a more pleasant conclusion. I no longer doubted that Holmes had abstained from opium whilst in that horrific den due to one small piece of evidence: Sherlock Holmes did not lie. He never had uttered to me a false truth of any kind in all the time I had been fortunate to know him. My prior anger had clouded this logic, though now I knew it to be right. My second conclusion was more straightforward: there was little point in questioning the past. He was now returned to me, to Baker Street, and that was enough.

'Watson?'

Holmes' clear voice rang through the flat. I detected no notes of discomfort or panic within the short utterance, but still rushed to the source of the sound quickly. He must have heard my footsteps, for a voice from within his bathroom called, 'Here,' to direct me further.

I puzzled, daring not to open the door for simple respect of my friend's privacy. 'What is it?'

'I require your aid. Don't worry, I am dressed.'

I entered the room slowly, at first only peeking around the edge of the door before stepping forth. He was stood before his sink, peering into the mirror at his chin, which was covered in the white lather of shaving soap. And he was indeed dressed, in flannel dressing gown.

'Watson. I have reason to believe that the close and constant proximity of opium smoke over the past few days has led my body to display some of the symptoms of the drug. My hands are shaking. I cannot hold my razor steady, and have already cut myself twice.'

I studied him for a few seconds. His face, although not quite as pale as before, was still gaunt, with dark half-moons beneath his eyes. His hands indeed shook with slight tremors, rendering a man's simple toilet irritatingly difficult- though a half-hearted attempt had been made to comb his hair, I realised fondly.

'You are lucky I am a patient man, my dear Holmes,' said I, taking his elbow and manoeuvring him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and obtaining the hoe-razor from his pale hand.

'I am lucky to be the only man you are patient with,' replied he, a smile curling his lip.

I tried for a stern glare but failed, my own smile betraying me as I knelt on the cold floor between his knees. 'No moving,' I ordered, tilting his head back with my free hand before smoothly making the first stroke.

I continued in silence for a blissful minute or so, concentrating on my task.

'I am sorry, John.'

'I said, 'no moving'.'

'You failed to say, 'no talking'.' A pause. 'I should have had someone send a telegram, or delivered some message, or left words with one of my irregulars; of course _I_ could not venture outside for fear of missing the information I sought- it was all in vain either way, as the suspect never even entered the den, either literally or in passing subject of overheard conversation-'

'Yes.' I cleared the blade. 'Yes, you should have sent a message. Or at least pre-arranged with me to have someone, or myself, keep check of you. I am not surprised you lost what day it was in your head, down in that ghastly pit.'

A gentle but shaking hand found a rest on my shoulder, and squeezed lightly. 'I apologise most sincerely, John. Though I did not need to reside in that den to lose the time and day. My mind is half-lost whenever your company is not present.'

I glanced upwards almost in disbelief at these astonishingly sentimental words, and found the real, sincere stare of those penetrating eyes looking right through me. I felt heat rise in my cheeks, and regained focus on my primary task. I had nearly finished, and once again rose my hand to gently tilt his chin upwards so I could make the final and most dangerous stroke. My thumb pressed against his mouth to discourage further talking.

The blade glided over his adam's apple just as his sly tongue darted out to flicker against the pad of my thumb.

Luckily, my hand did not slip and I finished the job efficiently, not wanting to add to the total of two cuts just under his left ear, from which blood still stemmed steadily. 'Holmes!' I said, mock-testily.

'Hmm?'

I wiped and washed the blade clean, folded it and set aside. 'Could you not have _waited_?' I asked, inclining my head to part my lips and press my own tongue against the cuts blemishing his pale skin. The soap made my taste buds cringe.

'Hmm. No.'

Raising my hands to either side of his neck I pressed my lips to his, and was delighted to feel him respond and the comforting weight of his own hands on my waist. The dull pain in my knees from the hard floor was becoming an annoying ache, but I ignored it (foolishly, as my leg would no doubt trouble me later). Holmes detached his lips from mine and instead pressed them to my jaw, over and over. 'Sherlock,' I could only gasp. 'I forgive you.'


	3. Chapter 3

The March of 1894 was a mild one, and I remember never feeling the chill so much as I meandered through the Park that cool day, breathing gulps of cold air as I looked for evidence or some small clue- but only succeeding in rendering myself well and truly puzzled, and my dear friend's absence more prominent to me than ever. I knew that for all my mediocre attempts, if Sherlock Holmes had been at my side he would have found some illuminating clue or other in the time it took me to walk the circumference of that fateful house, No. 427 Park Lane. Though I could try to revive for myself the excitement of chasing crimes, there was nothing in the world that could replace the comforting warmth of his arm linked with mine, or the brush of his tobacco-scented lips next to my ear- and that was enough to make even the most sunny day bleak and immobilising, as if ice pierced my bones.

Never could I have contemplated the astonishing way in which the dear fellow returned to me. And yet we returned to our old ways as if no years had passed- anticipation bubbling in my veins as I sat beside him in a hansom carriage, brimming with a fervent joy at his reappearance in my life. I had barely time to listen as he explained the escape of his most certain death before he was once again enlisting my help in a case, and I was thoughtlessly accepting.

As we waited in Camden House that strange evening, Holmes' eyes held a familiar glint which had always seemed to encompass the very energy of life itself. Even as we were forced to remain motionless and silent for those two hours, there seemed to be a static vibrancy emanating from Holmes, which was only heightened by the fact that there had not been a chance to greet each other _properly_ since the appearance of that old bookseller in my study. I felt his restlessness in every hushed breath, every quick turn of his head, the drum of his fingers against my palm. In contrast to his excitement, I felt motionless for the first half of our vigil; part of me still believed that I remained in that solitary, stagnant life of just hours earlier, even though the warmth of his slender hand in mine pressured me to think otherwise.

Then slowly, my mind adhered to reality once more, urged by the whisper of Holmes' voice in my ear at intervals, replying to my queries of his plans; of the sentinel we hoped to capture that night and the wax bust in our own Baker Street to act as the bait. Even the cool smoothness of my revolver handle ignited my skin, awakening memories etched into my every fibre and intensifying with each passing second. When the time came to finally act, it was a huge relief- an age of suppressed energy exploded from the both of us as Holmes pounced, catlike, onto our enemy; and I struck him with the butt of my gun.

This expelling of tension was beneficial to the both of us, as I could tell by my companion's much more relaxed attitude (and familiar exasperating smugness) as Lestrade and the other policemen dealt with the devious Moran, yet I, for one, did not feel entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was the primal urges which lurk inside every man, or the collective longing of two years passed, but I remained in a quiet state of unrest until Holmes, seated by my side in a carriage headed to our old quarters, placed his hand delicately on my knee and patted it comfortingly. At this simple touch, a different kind of energy sparked within me- one much less controllable, in my own experience, and I could not help my sharp intake of breath, nor the way my hand responded in kind and intertwined my fingers with his own. Many a time we had shared a hansom in this position - mostly under darkness, so our closeness could not be easily observed – though never with quite the same extremity of anticipation. I could barely sit still.

Somehow, Holmes still retained a key to 221B, and under deft hands the door to our old abode was opened and then closed again, and I gratefully fumbled my way to my old armchair, uncaring of the fine dust which lay on its fibres. I did not care much for trivial things, just then.

I had not removed my coat as the room held a chill in the cool air entering through the broken window, but I busied myself at the hearth whilst Holmes studied the bust by the window, wearing an eerily similar expression to that of his waxen double. Soon a fire crackled in the grate, and Holmes' eyes sparkled warmly as he related the Colonel's encyclopedia entry. Though, unusually so, my mind lingered not on the case but instead on the slope of Holmes' forehead and proud nose, the jut of his chin; the way his cheekbones appeared more pronounced and his skin paler than in my memory, suggesting a weakened health. His hair, prestigiously combed. The gracefulness of his movements as he drew his legs beneath him, curling up in his seat like some contented feline.

'I have missed you, my dear.'

'And I you, Watson. I do apologise again for not sending word, but appearing not to exist does hold certain benefits-'

'I can imagine. Do not apologise, Holmes. I am not at all angered; merely relieved. Your return brings me more pleasure than any man could comprehend, and I have no wish to dwell on the past.'

A flicker of a smile crossed my companion's strong features. 'I am glad for that. I did often fear as to how far you would be affected by the return of a dead man... enough, it seems, to collapse in a breathy faint-'

I couldn't hold back the chuckle in my throat at the memory of my own drama. 'Holmes!' I reprimanded.

The man laughed quietly, the firelight illuminating his hard features into something much softer, and I felt a great rush of fondness.

'Come here,' I said, reaching out my hand on some impulse.

My friend unfolded himself and stood lazily, accepting my hand. The revered touch of those smooth, pale fingertips was calming, and the hem of his old dressing gown swayed as he moved to seat himself astride my lap. Here, I could count the soft etchings and lines of his face, trace the hairline of his nape, see reflected back at me in his grey eyes the love I felt.

His gaze drifted to my upper lip, and Holmes tutted. 'You have been neglecting yourself,' said he, running his thumbnail along the edge of my moustache, which had grown untrimmed recently, though not long enough yet to be an irritation.

'I have had no reason to look presentable,' I replied truthfully, giving the tip of his thumb a small kiss. 'And I could comment similarly on the state of your waxen skin.'

'And I would give the same reply,' a silken voice murmured next to my ear. 'Though now, that excuse has been rendered invalid. You are reason enough for anything, dear Watson.'

(I hate to admit a certain heat came over my face at this sentiment).

'Nevertheless,' said I, my hands on his slim waist. 'As your doctor, I insist upon good rest and plentiful, healthy meals to get you back right again – no sporadic running off to solve cases at a moment's notice.'

'Oh, I quite agree,' came the surprisingly complacent reply through thin lips curved in a smile. 'I have no plans of leaving this house for at least the next two-or-three days. In fact-' and Holmes paused here to slip my coat from my shoulders, and I freed my arms from it to immediately return my hands to his hips. 'I have no plans of leaving our _bedchamber_ for the foreseeable future.'

'Holmes!' I cried, though his words had stirred a heat low in my stomach, and it was all I could do not to let out a most undignified groan.

Another devious chuckle filled my ears and then finally, Holmes kissed my lips, and it was just as I remembered. He tasted of tobacco and a coolness almost like mint; a combination I had always found most delicious. His fingers fumbled at my collar with a certain haste.

For two years, I had believed my dearest companion was deceased. Eight seasons, each one emptier than the last as I removed my belongings from Baker Street, as I tried to find solace in my friends' void words, as I roamed the roads of London in search of _anything_ with which to occupy myself. It was just three months or so ago that I had stopped accidentally setting out two teacups instead of just one.

And now my life was back to its perfect normality.

I struggled to find some way of expressing my thoughts. This had always proved difficult for me- unlike Holmes, who's sentiments were so rich and genuine that if collected, they could rival the sales of the most romantic poem anthology. Holmes' usual sharp comments had often left his enemies shredded and lacerated beyond repair, and thus it was justified that I never expected sweetness from him- and that, I suppose, was probably his plan all along. After all, sweet words on a smooth tongue seemed to hold more meaning when that very same tongue could deliver such a vengeful lashing.

'Holmes,' I tried, running the pad of my thumb over the arch of one dark eyebrow and down across his temple and the curve of his cheekbone- yet I found I could not continue when grey eyes shot upwards and I found myself immobilised entirely by his keen stare. A shiver passed over me; a shiver of relief and pleasure, but Holmes seemed to misinterpret the involuntary movement.

'We should retire, perhaps, if you are cold,' said he, lifting himself back to his feet. This time _I_ was the recipient of an outstretched hand, and I allowed myself to be led further into the depths of 221B. Somehow, I had never managed to bring myself to move any of Holmes' belongings from his quarters, and so everything in our old chambers was untouched and unchanged right down to the bustles of papers and books which dotted nearly every surface.

'Mrs Hudson has not neglected her dusting during our absence,' reported Holmes in that definitive way of his.

I nodded, amused. 'Yes. Perhaps she had some inkling that you would come back, one day,' said I with a sideways glance at him.

Rolling his eyes wearily, Holmes murmured, 'It would have been dangerous to have more than one confidant-', and would have probably defended himself further had it not been for the pressing of my lips to his. We stood for an age in the middle of that room, re-discovering every part of each other that had been so sorely missed, and relishing the perfect alignment of our two selves.

Holmes emitted a low groan when I pulled away to diminish the light of the room and draw the curtains as to hide any suggestion of our activities from the street below. Frustrating as the necessity of that act was, my irritation melted away with each press of my partner's graceful fingers and every gasp of heated breath against my neck.

Soon our patience – already weakened by months of quiet longing – wore thin, and in a rush of movement my waistcoat and shirt were near torn from my chest to join that camel dressing gown on the floor next to the bed. Laying on our sides, we urged to be as close as possible, and I don't think I have ever felt a truer contentment as that I felt with all six feet and two inches of Holmes curled into me; his sleek hair tickling my chin, his palm flat against the small of my back, his hardness pushing into my thigh. Pacified at last, we simply breathed together.

A heavy sigh huffed into my chest, and I looked down in response. 'Sherlock?'

As my fingers traced patterns on the smooth skin of his shoulder, I felt thin lips curve into a smile against my chest, and a quiet kiss press against my sternum.

Another flurry of absolute joy rose within me, and I glowed in the satisfaction of the moment in contrast to the lonely wasteland of the past few months. 'I've bloody well missed you,' said I after a second or two of deliberation in which no other words came to mind. It did not matter, as I knew even through my lack of eloquence that Holmes would understand entirely- which he proved by his small murmur of agreement as he lifted his head. My friend's observant stare did not miss the quiver of my brow nor the glisten of my eyes, and an expression akin to worry crossed his usually stoic features.

'All that matters now, Watson, is that we are reunited,' he spoke firmly, his cool hand finding my own in the dim moon-light and squeezing it comfortingly. He was frowning slightly, and that fine crease had appeared between his eyebrows.

'Yes,' I said simply, not trusting my wavering emotions to say anything more. I kissed him again as I pulled him to me. This time, I let my lips drift to his neck and in doing so I gained the most delightful response of a sharp buck of his hips. His fingers clenched my forearms as I repeated the gesture, over and over again, intensifying my touches with small bites whilst Holmes' agitation steadily became more deliciously apparent. Burying my nose in the crook of his neck, the tang of masculine musk filled my senses, though I was interrupted by a sharp exclamation.

'Oh! Watson, you really must trim that moustache. It does tickle so.'

This, along with the devious shine in his eyes and the smug curl of his lip, earned my companion a jab in the ribs. Though internally, I was blissful. _This_ was how I remembered our partnership; a deep connection which came from not only physical attraction and intimate caresses, but a solid understanding of each other, our strengths and weaknesses, and our desires, and our limits. While it may be arrogant of me, I feel able to declare that if any two men experienced all that we had in our years together, they would not gain anything as near as such a clear knowledge of the other as Holmes and I shared.

With an desire to both discipline and heighten the tension in my partner, I pulled away to sit on the edge of our bed and begin unlacing my boots with the most deliberate precision. I knew this would aggravate Holmes' tolerance- as indeed it did my own, as I wanted nothing more than to give in to my wants quickly. Yet I knew from experience that a slow, agonising build made the final result exceptionally stimulating, in great contrast to a short rush of stimuli.

Just as I pulled off the second boot, I felt a shift in the bedlinen and then Holmes was behind me, his chin on my shoulder. 'I am conscious of your approval for a languid approach,' said he, polite as ever, deft fingers sneaking slyly to my waistband and fastenings. 'Yet I feel I must rather selfishly remind you for how long I have waited in anguish to see your beauty once more.'

I forced myself to not alter the speed of my movements, and replied with a similar unwarranted charm to my speech. 'Pray do not think my desires are different to your own,' said I with a short laugh. 'Perhaps my restraint and control surpass your own.'

In a spontaneous flurry of movement, Holmes appeared kneeling on the floor by my feet. 'Surpass my own?' he exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement and a tell-tale quiver in his voice. 'Why, I have scouted out and followed the Colonel Moran's movements for months, biding time even as it drove against my very nature of detesting stagnation, yet never once striking until the prime situation presented itself this evening. The very moment in which I could _pounce_-' At this, he lunged forward and gripped my thighs, his eager face suddenly so very close to my own. '-and render him helpless. And you, dear Watson, the man who once took a blind oath to abstain from drinking alcohol and lasted a mere three days before reaching for the whisky, have the audacity to challenge my own forbearance?'

I had frozen under his fiery gaze, and found myself both amused and shocked at this vibrant display. Obviously, the tedium of the recent past must have forced him to contain and store some of that boundless energy of his, and now I was being shocked with the full force of it.

However as much as I thought I knew him well, Holmes would never stop surprising me throughout our years together. In a blink, he was the charming, reserved detective again. His voice now taken on a fluid, low tone, he murmured, 'Dear, dear Watson,' and, ignoring my blush, kissed my cheek.

His hands drifted to my trouser fastenings and within a couple of seconds had them undone, and was smoothly pushing them down, and I lifted my hips to help him. His skin was pale as marble and almost ethereal in the stark half-light of the room, the wiry strength in his arms and shoulders showing as he quickly disposed me of all my remaining garments.

He surveyed my length with an intensity usually only reserved for his methods of deducing, yet the half-closed position of his eyelids and wideness of his pupils suggested to me that his brilliant mind might just have been, for once, clear of all those hurried, rushing thoughts. With a raw, uncalculated instinct that I had rarely seen come from this man, who's actions were almost meticulously planned, his lips parted, his eyes closed, and he unconsciously leaned into my groin, inhaling deeply. Then that sly tongue of his darted out and lapped against me, and I could no longer hold back my vocalisations.

'God, Holmes!' I cried, my hands immediately rushing to his hair. A quiet smirk, and another deep suck were his responses, his mouth this time closing around at least half of me. His hands meandered across the skin of my thighs, feeling as my muscles tensed. His brow furrowed deliciously as he concentrated, and I could not help but wring my hands in his hair as he worked.

In all the times Holmes and I had ever done this to one another, the act had never lost the excitement for either of us, and I soon found myself very near to finishing. Regretfully, I pushed his head away, and he sighed, licked his lips, and looked up at me with eyes almost black with passion. I found his hand and tugged persistently, and in one graceful, fluid motion he was beside me on the bed again. Smooth fingers traced my cheek and brought me closer, and then our lips were joined once more, and there was a bitter addition of ejaculate to the usual taste of his tongue. Though it did not at all hinder my enthusiasm, and in running my fingertips down his chest, ribs, waist and hip I unfastened his own hindrances and took him in hand.

The low keen of his voice in moments like these had always been so pleasant to my ears, and I revelled in seeing the gasp of his breaths, the tightening of his fingernails into my forearm, the clench of his jaw as he fought his composure; in knowing that _I_ was the cause of this great display of lustful debauchery.

Removing my hand for only a moment provoked from him a frustrated, low groan and a keen glare, even as I removed his trousers as quickly as I could. Displaying great tension now, Holmes kicked the garments off from his ankles eagerly, obviously wanting to be rid of them immediately. Under his watchful stare I moved to sit atop his hips where he lay, and his gaze flicked downwards. As our lengths touched, the faintest colour flushed his pale face. As I closed my hand around them, his head dropped back and a hiss escaped his lips.

The only sounds to fill the room then were breathless gasps and hushed moans. It was essential to be quiet – we tried to not even rock the bed too much – for the sake of anyone overhearing. Though it was common in London for bachelors to share lodgings, it was also common for these men to be the subject of scandalous rumour. Holmes reputation, in all its greatness, would never withstand such an assault.

Though I desired to cry out his name to the Heavens I had to content myself in taking his hand, which had been exploring my hip and side, and pressing it to my lips. I whispered, 'Magnificent,' because that was my prevailing thought at that moment with my view of his bare chest and shoulders, his head thrown back and his throat exposed, of his stomach, tensing as he fought the urge to spend quickly.

Yet I also felt very close now, and I did not want him to fight it. I rushed my movements to the extent that it almost _hurt_ – though the feeling of him pressed tight against me could never be anything but exquisite. His hand, which I still held loosely in my own, twisted and locked our fingers together.

In a few quick seconds of blind pleasure Holmes bucked his hips up against me and was finished, and his cry of my name – _John!_ - was enough to bring me to climax too with the added ease of his fluid slicking my hand. Even through closed eyes I could feel Holmes' eyes on me once more, never looking away until I lay down beside him again.

With some struggled effort we managed to pull the bedsheets around ourselves, still short-for-breath as we did so. Holmes' arm draped over my waist, my back against his chest. I felt a kiss to my hair.

'Dear Watson,' said he, a lazy drawl to his voice a sure sign of tiredness. 'You are also rather _magnificent_.'

'I beg to differ,' I replied. 'I am no feat of magnificence- but you, my dear fellow, in more ways than one, are extraordinary. Your mind itself is most remarkable.'

Three seconds of silence followed, then- 'Yes. I must admit I do agree.'

My elbow to his ribs earned me a low chuckle. I smiled to myself, safe in the long-awaited comfort of his arms and feeling the lure of a peaceful sleep tugging at the edges of my consciousness. I succumbed to it readily with the knowledge that my mornings of waking up alone were now a far distant memory. 

The next morning, I was awoken by a sharp cry.

'Watson!' came the call from the bathroom. I opened my eyes, blinking in the sunlight just as Holmes came rushing into the room.

I yawned widely. 'Case?'

'No!' said he levelly. 'Look at my hair.'

I did, and saw that it was decidedly ruffled in a manner I had never seen before, instead of its usual neat style. I could not help but blush immediately, remembering our activities of the past night, and becoming suddenly aware of the itchy tightness of dried fluid on my stomach.

His eyes were wide with amusement, and I could see him struggling not to smile. 'This need not require much deduction... Watson, care to share your thoughts about the cause of this abomination?' he said, gesticulating towards his forehead.

Difficult as it was to take Holmes seriously when it seemed as if one of his chemistry experiments had exploded in his face to make his hair so dishevelled, I endeavoured not to laugh. 'I should think it was _me_, Holmes!'

'I should think quite rightly, Watson.' said he, rushing to my side. 'These! These hands of yours are the culprits.'

He dropped something mildly heavy into my hand beneath the bedlinen, though I did not look at it yet and with my other hand reached out to the mess of his hair. Still stiff with pomade, it bounced slightly as I prodded, and I laughed at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

Holmes pressed a kiss to my cheek, his unshaven jaw scratching my own. His thumb brushed the corner of my moustache. 'I assume you will be wanting to complete your own toilet presently, will you not?' he asked but did not wait for an answer, and merely raised one perfect eyebrow before disappearing out of the room again.

It appeared Holmes had obtained a stronger sense of humour while away; this, coupled with the excitement of being at last back in London and by my side, had obviously led to this morning's display of silly excitement. I can't say it didn't amuse me, and I smiled fondly as I opened my hand to reveal what Holmes had given me. In my palm lay my old trimming scissors.

They had been in their case next to the mirror in my bathroom at 221B for the past two years. When Holmes and I lived here before, they had been used regularly, at least once a week, as I used to take some pride in my appearance even to the finer details of facial hair – an attention to detail no doubt inspired by the close proximity of such a well-tailored, effortlessly presentable man as Sherlock Holmes. I examined the scissors. Obviously after so much disuse, they had begun to rust slightly, and the joint was very stiff – they would be of little use if I tried to use them now.

However it was the thought that counted, as goes the old saying. Holmes had never been very subtle in his attempts to get me to do as he wished. My eyes narrowed.  
_  
'Holmes!'_


End file.
